Lord of the Pimp: The Quest for Teemo's Soul
by imtoojuicy
Summary: Ahri's boyfriend Teemo no longer has a soul and now pimps her out mercilessly to the masses. Can she recover Teemo's soul before he is forever lost to the darkness that is pimping? Teemo x Ahri
1. Chapter 1

Like white wine and seafood or the two main constituents of a PBJ sandwich, lazy summer days and sprawling trashy trailer parks were simply made for each other. The stifling suffocating heat and the tinny monotone of singing grasshoppers made for lethargic unproductive minds, encouraging the park's residents to park themselves out front on lawn chairs with glasses of powder-flavored water and call it an early day under the idle blue skies. These lawn chairs did not rest on actual lawns, mind you. This is a trailer park, after all, with no (front)back yards or gardens of consequence for residents to mow or tend. Where there would be square lawns and cubed hedges in a more upscale neighborhood, lopsided piles of random knickknacks and rusty junk lay strewn about on dirt, crabgrass, and dandelions, often next to a patchy and poorly maintained automobile usually indistinguishable from the rusty junk itself. On some days, the trailer park trash bemoaned their ill luck and lousy jobs, wishing they had real homes with real lawns and not-dirt driveways. Never during these lazy days of summer, however. On days like these, they were content to just sit there in the shade, sipping the hours away and watching the weeds grow out front.

There is one particular trailer, however, where the owner never parks herself out front on a summer day. For she was originally an arctic fox kit who used to frolic about in powdered snow, and she prefers to stay indoors and enjoy the luxury of her window air conditioner: a giant bleached dinosaur of an appliance which blasts chilly roars of air and inspires immense jealousy among her sticky sweaty neighbors. She is usually no further than ten feet away from her beloved air conditioner on such days, and today is no exception as we find her lying belly down on an antiquated cherry-colored divan with chipped wooden legs. Her chin rests on a poofy marshmallow of a cushion and her hands prop up an opened book for her vaguely inhuman and overwhelmingly exotic eyes of golden amber. She learned how to read maybe two months ago tops, and she is now absolutely addicted to these amazing bundles of paper. Already abnormally inquisitive during her days as a fox, she cannot stop picking up tome after tome now that she is a human, turning page after page with these incredibly useful opposable thumbs of hers. On hot summer days like these, her thirst for undiscovered worlds and immersing character studies cannot be slaked.

Somewhat reminiscent of pre-rework Sejuani's character design, this arctic fox girl is dressed in the naughtiest of cutoff denim short shorts and a tiny cotton white halter top so she can better feel the rush of familiar arctic air against her skin. Her perfect lower legs flail against the divan with excited thuds and her nine bushy tails sway like the fronds of a palm tree as she giggles madly at the latest development in her latest book. Her soft pink lips, which have never worn or needed lipstick, whisper in a naturally sultry and breathy voice that many men have literally died for, as she repeats the last sentence out loud for the benefit of the furry cornered ears perched on top of her raven-haired head.

"Would you eat them in a box? Would you eat them with a fox?"

Literature references to foxes never fail to crack her up. Learning the letters of the alphabet had been both the easiest and funnest part (she sings the quick brown fox mnemonic every morning in the shower). She cackles under her breath as her golden eyes absolutely eat up the whimsical pictures of oddly simian men arguing over an omnipresent platter of green eggs and ham. She is dying to find out if the resistant man will ever capitulate to eating the contents of the platter. She is quite sure he will, but she is on her guard this time around; she has found out recently that some books come with surprise endings.

Her bare stomach suddenly growls against the divan, its noisy complaints reverberating threefold through said divan, chilly air, and the sinuous trunk of the fox girl's body. While green eggs and ham may not appeal to the tastes of this story's antagonist, they sound pretty damn appetizing to this fox girl who still raids quail nests for their little periwinkle eggs. And although she does not have green eggs in her refrigerator, she does have a dozen or so fresh brown eggs sitting in her cupboard, delectable unborn babies just waiting to be savored and swallowed. She buys freshly laid eggs every week from Farmer Nasus, the ever polite and genteel dogman down the road a few miles; she generally avoids buying the "fresh" meat and dairy from the local supermarkets, because they are anything but. She tried a grocery's top grade steak over half a year ago, and she ended up throwing the whole thing out after one tentative bite and swallow. It was far better than, say, scavenging a rotting carcass, but the flavor was still off-putting to her newly picky palate. The age. The stagnant blood. The plastic and styrofoam shells it had been wrapped in. The chemicals the animal had been raised with.

Although she dearly wants to chug onwards and finish the book in one sitting, her animal instincts are still too strong. Food first. Always food first. She obeys her instincts and sets down the book for now, planning to finish it after she has addressed the clamors of her stomach. Now that her mind is no longer engrossed in the fantastic world laid before her by the one and only Dr. Seuss (her favorite author), she is now vividly aware of the true world about her. The powerful yet hoarse roar of her air conditioner. The firm support of the divan beneath the entire length of her body. Cold air rushing up the small of her back and underneath her top, embracing her within its lecherous tendrils. The slightly stale scent of accumulating dust due to her lackadaisical housekeeping habits (she has yet to discover vacuum cleaners).

From the adjacent kitchen, an ancient tape cassette plus radio boombox blares music from its surefooted perch on top of a neglected microwave. It is a cousin of the air conditioner dinosaur, a smaller yet similarly stocky beast of gray hue and anachronistically boxy proportions in this day and age of sleek smooth hextechnology. It is her third most prized possession after her air conditioner and books. After overpaying the delighted oaf at the nearby pawn shop (basic arithmetic was still beyond her at this point in time, unfortunately), she spent ten hours straight just rotating all the mysterious knobs over and over, wincing and laughing at the screeching static and lovely melodies. Behind a sheer strip of clouded plastic, the stenciled row of radio station frequencies makes little sense to her amber eyes and foxgirl brain; but she is bright enough to determine that what really matters is the vertical tangerine bar which zips left or right depending on how she spins a certain knob. The bar dictates what comes out of the huge circular wire-lattice speakers; a certain style of music will always play while the bar rests at a certain position. Her mind is boggled by the astonishing variety of music offered by the radio. In the forest, one had no choice but to listen the songs of birds by day, and the violins of crickets and tubas of toads by night.

She usually leaves the bar resting at a position which guarantees a style of music called "oldies". There are many oldies stations, but this one is especially dear to her heart because it has an unabashed proclivity for the easygoing genre of surfer tunes. The mellow singsong melodies resonate within the very core of her body and soul, both soothing and uplifting the beast within her in ways she never dreamed of. Whenever she is in the kitchen, she often spontaneously breaks out in dance, usually a slow-motion shimmy which keeps pace with the placid tunes. She tries to sing and hum along as best she can and, since she has a talented voice and superhuman hearing, she does very well.

Today, the surfer station just happens to start up her favorite song, a surfer's anthem originally written and performed by a classic yordle band called the Beach Cubs. And the tantalizingly familiar guitar intro wafts into her bedroom, sealing the deal. The book falls by the wayside. Pointy ears wiggling with the unruliness of children fighting in the backseat of a car, she flits into the kitchen like a moth tragically drawn to flame as brass instruments now gently nudge their way into the song. Her bare feet are already off and dancing, pushing off in a delightfully slick manner on the clean enough linoleum, making that cutsie wubba-wubba sound you hear in-game whenever she walks around. Her fully extended arms windmill about with a deliberate grace, dipping down with a right-angled hand to her hips with each beat of the drum. Her pretty whiskered face, with the slightest remainders of baby fat on her adorably dimpled cheeks, is the picture of bliss as she dreams of warm sandy beaches and rolling waves crested with foamy white.

The Beach Cubs finally start singing, a quintet of male yordle tenors and baritones with pleasantly smooth voices cultivated by years of experimental drug use. Only four of them are still alive today, and so, as she slowly saunters over to the egg pantry with windmilling arms, she joins in as a temporary fifth with her breathy soprano...

_"Well Noxus girls are hip, I really dig those styles they wear..."_

_"And Demacian girls with the way they talk, they knock me out when I'm down there..."_

_"The Piltover police girls really make you feel alright..."_

_"And the Freljord girls with the way they kiss, they keep their boyfriends warm at night..."_

_"But..._

The chorus! The cupboard of eggs awaits her, but they momentarily join her book in the land of the forgotten. For she has swept all nine of her tails into her arms with a tender hug, and she now dances a slow hip-swaying dance with her impromptu nine-headed partner as the song (and she) break out into chorus:

_"I wish they all could be Bandle City..."_  
_"I wish they all could be Bandle City..."_  
_"I wish they all could be Bandle City girrrls..."_

She spins around with herself at the wonderfully drawn out "girrrrrls". It is a rather typical surfer song. Simple and slow in notes and lyrics. Waxing carefree about all different types of girls from around the world. Most importantly, they wish for a type of girl in particular. She adores this song because she knows the Beach Cubs were singing about a girl like her. Wishing for a girl like her. She feels this way in no small part because her boyfriend used to sing this song for her every other night, his nimble little paws masterfully doling out the song's bars and chords from his lute as he rocked back and forth in his seat beside her in front of the campfire. His squeaky voice was a warbly tenor, barely passable in how it held a tune, but it was the sweetest thing to her ears nonetheless. And his normally wicked squinty eyes, whenever he belted out the main chorus, they always broke open into huge vulnerable puddles while he looked up to her, serenaded her. For while his lips said Bandle City, his eyes said otherwise. He didn't want or need no Bandle City girl. All he ever wanted and needed was her.

Those had been the best days. Her spinning stops, and she stands still for a moment, burying her face into the hushing comfort of her tails as her eyes began to tear. As a torrent of unwelcome human emotion sweeps through her from furry ears to bare toes. Yes, those had been the best days. But they also were long ago days. Almost forgotten by her if not for the occasional reminder by the Beach Cubs. Most certainly forgotten by him.

And as fate would have it, as she stood alone in her trailer with her head bowed, a bird's eye view outside revealed a boat of a ludicrously purple and orange Cadillac navigating its way through the silvery sea of gleaming unpainted trailer roofs. The thrice-polished-this-morning Cadillac shines so bright in the sun, it hurts. The massive pitch black tires, sides unscuffed and unmarked, slowly rotate one way, crushing gravel and wayward children toys beneath their vulcanized rubber; the bladed spinner hubcaps go the other way with the glinting shimmer of a brisk pinwheel. The occupants of the car are ominously concealed inside opaque tinted windows rolled up all the way, but the music booming from inside is irrepressibly vulgar. The car's speakers and woofers are so powerful, the windows of nearby trailers and the teeth of the trailers inhabitants rattle. Unlike the gentle rhapsody of the Beach Cubs, this song is vilely aggressive and lewd with its throbbing bass and crass lyrics. It is by a yordle rapper named Too Short, and this vertically challenged rapper (challenged even by yordle standards) wants you to "Shake That Monkey".

_Bounce dat ass up and down to da flo!  
Shake that **** till you can't no mo!  
Twirk that monkey, let me see ya get low!  
Freak that yigga till ya **** get sore!_

Yigga being the yordle version of the N word, of course.

Normally, her sensitive ears would have pr1cked up at the approach of the loudly painted car and its even louder "music", but she is lost inside her tails and the haze of the Beach Cubs' serenade. She does not hear the car slowly pull to a stop before her trailer, and Too Short suddenly shuts up. A calm settles down over the trailer park again, but this time, the grasshoppers are silent. For even they are afraid of the predator that now treads within their midst. This calm is a dreadfully deadened calm. A portent that reeks of impending violence and inexplicably savage brutality. The air grows heavy and pressurized, tingling with static. The lull before a terrible thunderstorm begins to strike. And strike.

While the spinners are still going strong, the driver's door swings open. And a pair of yordle feet drop down to hit the pavement with a thud of finality.

_"I wish they all could be Bandle City..."_

Having let go of her tails by now, Ahri stops singing and reaching for her cupboard when a rapping (no, not that kind of rapping) is heard at her front door. Oh, what's this? A visitor?

_"I wish they all could be Bandle City..."_

Sixth sense dulled by the easy voices of the Beach Cubs, she sonorously calls out to her visitor, "Coming!" And the fox girl flounces to her doorway like how a field mouse unknowingly trots towards a cobra lying in wait, completely unaware of the danger she is in. She is humming to herself as she opens the door only partially due to the chain lock which she keeps habitually slid home (it is not a particularly good neighborhood, after all) -

She screams as a yordle foot slams into the door with unbridled fury, smashing it open in the blink of an eye as wooden splinters and the still-intact brass chain of her door lock explodes into her face. The door swings inward and slams to a halt against the wall it is inlaid in, doorknob punching clean through the paper and plaster and holding itself fast. She staggers backwards, coughing as a new layer of dust settles over her furniture, and her eyes, once filled with dreams and long ago love, are now filled with animal terror. Her stomach knots up into a panic, and her feet suddenly turn clumsy as they trip over themselves. Her nine tailed rump hits the floor as she instinctively begins to scrabble away with all four limbs, wishing nothing else but to flee from the short and stocky shadow looming before her.

_"I wish they all could be Bandle City girrrls..."_

The roof of her mouth runs dry as she stammers, "T- T- Teemo, what do you - "

His eyes had been closed. But now they open, two beady bloodshot orbs, burning reddened white against the backdrop of his head's silhouette. A silhouette as blackened as his shriveled heart.

His mouth flares open now to snarl at her. Two rows of sawtoothed pearls embedded in fleshy gummy pink. His guttural growl rumbles with malevolent thunder, threatening to strike her at any moment.

_**"B1TCH! WHERE'S MAH MONEY?!"**_

Poor girl. She should have finished the book while she had the chance.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

I am totally stuck on my other stories. So I wrote a doodle instead. My stories are generally happy go lucky stories, since that's kinda how I roll, so I'm trying to write something darker instead. A challenge to myself. The weather is also really freaking hot where I am, so I wanted to write about hot days, lol.

The Beach Cubs are a reference to the Beach Boys and their song "California Girls", of course. Too Short is a reference to, uh, Too Short. No, I don't live in a trailer park.


	2. Chapter 2

The city of Piltover, a shining bastion of opportunity and hope, forever looking to the future. Piltover is the undisputed leader in the rapidly advancing field of hextechnology; it can also be argued that its melting pot of a society is the model of the future, what with its hodge podge of humans, yordles, armordillos, steam golems, green blobs, and nine-tailed fox girls. But while Piltover is considered the land of opportunity for those less fortunate and those who do not quite fit in with the rest, it is also considered the land of opportunity for the morally bankrupt who make their living by preying on those who are not yet able to fight back.

The open borders make for lax customs checks. So many bright eyed and bushy tailed nooblet immigrants to use as drug mules. Nary a stop sign or slow down for the human trafficking industry.

The burgeoning tech business makes for an influx of bright minds and new money. Emphasis on the new money. These bright minds have deep pockets and they can afford all the expensive sins during their off hours. Drinking. Drugs. Gambling. Women.

Piltover is terribly vulnerable during its nascency, and it requires an iron fist to keep its nose clean. Luckily for Piltover, it has this iron fist, and the fist comes in the shape of a tall and leggy sheriff who has an affinity for funky hats. The priggish politicians make the laws, but everyone knows that Sheriff Caitlyn _IS_ the law. She doesn't give a **** about the ***** mother****ing mayor, his ***** ass council, and the meaningless pieces of paper they angrily wave in front of her face. Because bad guys around here don't care about those stupid pieces of paper, therefore neither does she. The only thing bad guys pay attention to is bullets whining over their heads and the bottomless black holes of gun muzzles jammed against their temples.

The vast rotunda of the Piltover police station is a neat and modern affair of ivory color, and it is always filled with filth in the form of street scum and riff raff as they are roughly hauled to and fro by grim police officers. Indignant denials of wrongdoing and idle threats of vengeance rebound off the faraway walls and domed ceiling high above. The revolving doors turn endlessly like the turbines of a dam. A dam struggling to hold back the onset of corruption and anarchy.

Sheriff Caitlyn makes her daily rounds at noon, and the sun is at its peak; thus she slowly walks through the rotunda with her hands clasped behind her back, for the purpose of mocking those miscreants who happen to be cuffed. Criminals glower at her from afar, but never from close. For while her right hand woman Vi is world reknown for police brutality, ice queen Caitlyn is notoriously harsh in her own way. She is particularly infamous for throwing people into solitary at the slightest provocation. Look at her funny? Resisting arrest. Brush her shoulder? Assaulting a police officer. Throw him into one of the outdoor boxes and let 'im cook for a month.

Caitlyn is not without compassion, however. Granted, she saves it only for the victims and not the crooks, but that is just how seasoned police officers roll. And right now, she bites her lower lip in steely trembling anger as she watches a woman hesitantly enter through a revolving door. The girl is so young and pretty despite her tear stricken face and puffy red cheeks. She is barefoot and huddled inside a ratty-looking moving blanket wrapped around her shoulders; Caitlyn cannot see for sure from here, but she already knows the poor girl has no clothes underneath. The girl looks like she would rather die than be here, but something unstoppably powerful compels her nonetheless to step naked foot onto the cold chess-squared marble floor of the police station.

Caitlyn already knows the purpose of this young woman seeking refuge and she immediately makes a beeline for her. The other police officers hastily step out of her way. Caitlyn does the rest, flinging aside any ******* who happens to be in her path. One handcuffed hoodlum has already noticed the pretty girl at the door and is commenting about how he wants to stuff her face into his lap; without missing a step, the sheriff casually unsheathes and slams her baton against his grinning face in one succinct motion, breaking his nose, a cheekbone, and four teeth. Damn. She didn't mean to break the teeth. Been spending too much time in the field with Vi lately. The rough girl's brutish ways are rubbing off on her.

As Caitlyn leaves a screaming blood-gushing waste of humanity for greener pastures, a couple concerned officers have already rushed to the girl's side, and they look up to Caitlyn as she comes to a stop before them. "You want this one, sheriff?"

"Yeah." Caitlyn makes a conscious effort to soften her harsh face, and she bends a bit at the knees so she is eye-level with the shamefaced and sniffling girl. "Come on," she says in a gentle voice that belies the rage twisting and turning inside her soul. "Let's get you to a room and get you some clothes."

"O-O-Okay..."

The girl obediently nods as she attempts to wipe her nose dry with the back of her forearm. She has the cutest button nose ever and simply adorable little pointed ears on the top of her head. A naïve person would almost be incredulous that there is a heartless monster out there who is capable of beating and abusing such a cute young girl. Caitlyn knows better, for she has seen it all. Seen this same girl in various shapes and sizes far too often.

As Caitlyn leads the way for the naked girl in a blanket, she keeps a hand on the grip of her baton. None of the scum dares to even look their direction.

They are in a medical room now, a quiet cozy sanctuary far removed from the chaos thanks to a lengthy spartan hallway and heavy glass double-paned double doors. Behind drawn curtains, the girl has let go of the moving blanket at the lady doctor's gentle request, and Caitlyn takes it for her. The blanket looks like sooty fiberglass, but it is surprisingly soft and comforting to Caitlyn's touch and she carefully sets it aside on the table top. The girl's naked body is a heavenly sight, a frame built to please men rather than bear children. Even though she is among women, her arms cling with folded form over her chests in a feeble attempt at propriety. She cannot stop shivering even though the room is by no means chilly. Caitlyn hides her anger to avoid further upsetting the victim as she silently swears to sic Vi on the monster who did this.

Other than a few bruises, the doc pronounces the girl to be in good health physically. Caitlyn offers her coffee, but the thankful girl would rather have water; so Cailtyn heads off to the cooler. When she comes back, the doctor has laid out some clothes for the girl to put on. Loose sweatshirt and baggy pants. Faded black cotton polyester blend. The front of the familiar sweatshirt has two hands with two giant middle fingers on the chest. Oh yeah. That's right. Vi donated her old workout sweats to the station a while back.

The middle fingers elicit a faint smile from the girl, and the smile is a most welcome sight. The smile is angelic, soothing and cathartic yet excitingly delightful. The smile leaves even Caitlyn incredulous now; there is someone out there bastard enough to strike a face like this?!

The sheriff asks kindly, "How do they fit you? Feels all right?"

"They fit well. Thank you." The girl nods as she keeps looking down at the middle fingers on her chest, almost as if she can't believe she's wearing such a vulgar thing. She definitely can't stop smiling at the silly fingers, and the angelic smile tugs again on the heart strings of the normally aloof Caitlyn. The sheriff feels awful that she has to ask questions now.

"What's your name, honey?"

The smile vanishes as the girl becomes downcast, shrinking inside the clothing originally bought by a considerably larger woman. "My name is Ahri..."

"Ahri, can you tell us what happened?"

The girl is in so much pain now, and for a moment, she can't say anything as her eyes grow wet and humiliation muzzles her mouth. Caitlyn's soft lips whisper comforting motherly sounds as she reaches out to calm the girl's trembling hand with her own steady reassuring counterpart.

"Sssh, it'll be okay, he can't hurt you here, and he won't hurt you anymore, I promise you that... Ahri, you have to tell us..."

The fox girl bursts like a bubble, a fine mist of her spittle flying out of her mouth as she sputters, "My boyfriend! He... he broke into my home and he... he... chased after me with his Move Quick and..."

Caitlyn's eyes immediately bulge at the mention of the skill known as Move Quick. Oh god, of course! She should have known! Who else would be such a heartless despicable and motherless monster?!

"Did you say Move Quick?! Then your boyfriend! His name! Is he - "

Ahri's head is bowed so low, chin on sternum, and she murmurs with the quiet of sleep talk: "Yes, my boyfriend is Teemo... the Yordle Scout champion from the League of Legends..."

_Four hours ago, Ahri's Trailer_

_**"B1TCH! WHERE'S MAH MONEY?!"**_

Teemo towers figuratively over the cowering Ahri as she sprawls an awkward sideways onto the floor, his tiny furry fists balled at his hips, steam belching in and out of his flaring nostrils. He is wearing a grape purple pimp suit with orange pinstripes, a matching orange fedora with a purple turkey feather tucked in its band, and tacky orange platform shoes with goldfish swimming around inside their plexiglass saltwater-filled soles. The worst are his eyes. Bloodshot, inhuman (inyordle), murderous. He has always had the eyes of a killer, for after all, that is what his job entails as the top scout in the yordle military. And to be frank, those eyes were part of what made him so attractive to her. But these eyes were not those eyes. Those eyes had loved her, sung to her, cared for her. These eyes were not capable of such things. They were bottomless pits of ether, their nothingness reflecting neither her face nor his soul.

Her pale face covered with particle-board fragments of her ruined front door, she coughs once, lightly, to clear some of the particle dust from her throat and lips. Otherwise, she is too frightened to speak. Too frightened to even command her body to move. Her feet are instinctively cycling on invisible pedals, digging their heels into the woolly carpet to push herself away from him.

The yordle pimp will not take silence for an answer. Like how an officer of the law demands that you answer him when he addresses you, a pimp always demands that his hoe answer him when he addresses her.

He lurches forward suddenly with a cocked paw, ready to strike her with the back of his pimp hand. Her silence ends due to his all-too-familiar start up, and she is already shrieking for forgiveness as she shies away with her arms shielding her face.

"Teemo I'm so sorry I don't have it yet I'll get it to you by tomorrow, I swear, Teemo, I promise, I'm so sorry I'm so sorry - "

_**"I don't wanna hear ya excuses ya LAZY *****!"**_ He makes again like he is going to strike her, and she flinches with a squeal, which makes him laugh maliciously as he puffs out his chest with a misogynist's pride and pulls himself back for now.

_**"God, you're such a dumb hoe."**_ He stuffs his hands into his pants pockets as he turns his head about to survey the debris-littered living room. His soulless eyes settle on a sturdy ceramic poro-shaped cookie jar on her kitchen counter. _**"Lemme guess, ya still keep ya money in the cookie jar?"**_

She immediately nods from the floor, and his hands whip out of the pockets to reach for the cookie jar. Unfortunately, he is not tall enough to reach it, and he scowls as he shuffles over to grab the nearest chair, furtively checking on her as an emotion finally lurks within his pits for eyes: the emotion of insecurity. He is making sure she is not laughing at him. She is not. Before, she would have laughed. Her Teemo had no complexes or insecurities about his numerous vertical challenges. As a matter of fact, he often joked about his shortcomings (is that a short joke?!), his most common refrain being "Size doesn't mean everything!"

But this yordle is not her Teemo.

He sets the chair down by the counter and cookie jar, clambers onto the seat, and retrieves the ceramic poro. He lifts the lid, pulls out a sizable wad of cash, shoots another quick eye check over at her (she has not moved a muscle), then starts thumbing through the bills, counting under his breath.

_**"Hup, two, three, four... four hundo?! You only got four hundred since last week, ya lazy hoe?!"**_

"Teemo, I'm sorry, I'll get more money, please, don't hit me please don't - "

_**"*****, HOW THE **** YOU ONLY GOT FOUR HUNDO SO FAR?! YA GOT ENOUGH TAIL TO TAKE ON NINE MEN AT THE SAME TIME, FOR ****S SAKE, DO I GOTTA SLAP A HOE?!"**_

He slams his fist into the wall next to him, leaving a hole at knee level next to a bunch of older yordle-fist-shaped perforations also at knee level. He advances on her again and, this time, she spots something else in his eyes. Violence. She barely even sees anger, it's beyond that now. It is violence, and he means it this time. No feints or fakes. He is really going to hit her.

The blood drains from her face as she manages to gasp through panicky lips, "Teemo, please, no, I'm trying the best I can, please don't hit me - "

_**"YA GONE GIT IT NOW, *****, RRRAHHH!"**_

She shrieks as she and her tails curl up into a fetal ball, shielding herself as best she can as his little forepaws batter her ineffectually.

_**"STOP FIGHTING BACk, YA *****, AND TAKE IT IN DA FACE LIKE DA HOE YOU ARE!"**_

He reaches down to rip aside one of her arms and she finally stirs into action, still shrieking at the top of her lungs as she climbs onto her wildly pumping legs and scrambles for the hallway. He howls in fury at her escape attempt and one of his paws snags the closest body part of hers, which happens to be fox tail #4. She does not notice as she uses her ultimate to dash into the hallway, towing a trailing airborne Teemo behind her until his forehead slams against a corner of the hallway entrance, badly denting his orange fedora.

It's his turn to utter a shriek, albeit a guttural one, as he crashes to the ground and both of his paws clap onto his bone-bruised head. _**"GODDAMIT , *****, I SAID, STOP FIGHTING BACk, YA *****, DON'T MAKE IT ANY HARDER ON URSELF, YA HEAR!"**_

Through the teary stars in his eyes and the metal ringing in his ears, he hears Ahri slam her restroom door shut. The lock clicks. That dumb ***** really trying to hide in her bathroom?!

Teemo throws a flash of a tantrum as he smashes his fists, feet, and face into the carpet. Then he gets up and pulls out a giant battle axe that he stole from Dumbo Darius last week. His face is pure insanity as he stalks into the hallway with his teeth glowing in the shadows. He hopes that he looks like a bit like Jack Nicholson in the Shining when Ahri finally sees him.

To help her make the connection, he yells out with a teeth-gnashing grin, _**"Heeeere's Johnny!"**_

Then he starts to smash the axe against the door, laughing maniacally as splinters and shards fly everywhere. Ahri is absolutely beside herself as she hides in her bathtub, screaming at the top of her lungs, "God, Teemo, stop, what are you doing, please stop, please please please please!"

_**"I'LL TEACH YA TO LOCK DOORS ON ME, YA WORTHLESS HOE! YA FOUR HUNDO DOLLAR HOE, WHY YOU SO FUKCING STUPID AND DUMB - "**_

"Um, Teemo?" Ahri sticks her head out from the bathroom she is hiding in. "Why are you destroying the door to my shoe closet?"

_**"WHAT?!"**_

Teemo looks over at Ahri at the other end of the hallway. Then he looks at the mangled door before him. In his blind fury, he has been battering down the wrong door.

_**"What the ****!"**_

Teemo peers inside the jagged holes of the door to see a row of perhaps ten expensive pair of sneakers. Then he looks back at the quizzical face of Ahri and shouts:

_**"WHAT THE ****, *****, U TRICKED ME!"**_

Ahri's face pales in terror again. "No, Teemo, I didn't trick you! I didn't know you would start attacking the wrong door, I'm so sorry - "

_**"WHAT THE ****! YA CALLING ME STUPID NOW TOO, YA *****?!"**_ Spittle is shooting like silly string out of his mouth now. He really hates it when people call him stupid.

"No, Teemo, I wouldn't ever call you stupid, please - "

_**"SHUT UP, YA CALLED ME STUPID, YA DUMB TRICK! YA KNOW WHAT, TIME TO TEACH YA THAT TRICKS AREN'T ALLOWED TO TRICK THEIR DADDY!"**_

He lets go of the axe because it is stuck in the door now and he is not strong enough to pull it out. He rolls up his sleeves and uses his Move Quick to close in on her before she is able to shut the door on him.

They are both in the bathroom now and she is cowering in a corner before him, nowhere to go and nowhere to hide. She whimpers in a last ditch effort to avoid the pimp's backhand: "Teemo, please, no! If you really need more money, maybe you can just... just... you know... get a job..."

That was the worst thing she could have said, as his facial fur somehow turns purple in apoplectic rage even though he says almost calmly: _**"What. Did. You. Say?!"**_

"I-I-I think maybe you could get a job..."

All he does is stare at her. Then she realizes she should have kept her mouth shut, and she immediately retracts what she said with hasty whispers. "No no no, I didn't mean that, Teemo, I was just being stupid, you don't have to get a job I'll get you your money, I didn't say nuthin - "

He is so angry, he can't even say anything, for nothing coherent comes to mind. His scrunched mouth wrinkles with silent threats as purple veins pop out of his purple fur now. His eyes bulge like a homicidal tarsier. Ahri is losing control of her bladder as he simply stands there motionless, killing her with his daggers for eyes -

He suddenly turns invisible due to his passive. Which is not the effect he wanted, and he waggles his paws up and down for a couple seconds to make himself visible again. Then he shrieks:

_**"I ALREADY GOT A FULL TIME JOB, *****, YA THINK PIMPING'S EASY?! LOOK AT HOW MUCH TROUBLE I GOTTA GO THRU TO KEEP JUST ONE OF U HOES IN LINE, ****ING DUMB ****!"**_

Her face is warped and blotched pink as she shakes her head from side to side, blubbering unintelligible pleas for mercy. Her pleas fall upon deaf ears and a heart of stone as he drops down the toilet lid so he can stand on it and reach her face with his backhand...

Ahri's trailer park neighbor is grandpappy Zilean. He is a champion of the League and he lives in this trailer because he is ****ing dirt poor. He is perpetually out of work because he is no longer used in competitive play. He doesn't get royalties because no one buys his skins. Unlike Ahri, who is actually not poor but lives in a trailer park because she doesn't know any better and she likes being close to the forest (for a fox, it is quite the upgrade to move from a dirt burrow under a tree stump to a big honkin trailer with its very own window air conditioner!). He can't afford jack **** except for an old pair of weather-beaten overall suspenders and some Tang water for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

He is sitting on his front "porch", his porch being the shadowed cracked concrete under an aborted tarpulin awning sticking out over his front door. He stares angrily at the pimp's purple car as he hears the poor little fox girl scream over and over from inside the trailer. He'd call the cops, but his cell phone's bill is way overdue and it got suspended. He'd go over there and help her, but frankly, he is scared of the pimp known around these parts as Teemo, He of the Pimp Hand.

Ten minutes later after he stormed in, Teemo walks back out, rolling down his silken sleeves. His face is still angry but satisfied; the smugness on the yordle's face sickens Zilean's stomach and heart.

Even though he is afraid of the rich and popular yordle dirtbag, Zilean cannot help but shout from his lawn chair with an angry fist and from between gums and yellowed dentures: "Ya basterd sum of a b1tch, why you treat dat poor girl dat way! Ain't no god fearin man ever treat his wimmin dat way, say jesus, ya gonna get ur turn in hell yes you will!"

The yordle scowls at the nosy old man from across the clay colored chain link fence. The pimp turns to yank open the front of his jacket and reveal a loaded blowgun tucked inside the waistband of his pants. _**"Ya really want some of this, pops?!"**_

Zilean lapses into silence and looks away because, no, he doesn't want some of this. He's said his part, now all he can do is pray for the poor girl...

Teemo laughs harshly, gratingly, as he lets his jacket drop back down and closed. _**"That's what I thought. See ya pops."**_

He opens the door to his Cadillac, where a stack of phone books await on the front seat. He jumps onto the phone books so he can reach the steering wheel, then he shouts at the yordle who mans the pedals way down below:

_**"We heading out, Rumble! Push dat gas!"**_

Rumble, formerly known as the Mechanized Menace, is now more known as the Technological Toady, as he stammers from the foot space of the driver's seat: "Y-Y-Yes, boss!" He is the one who polished the car three times this morning.

Rumble pushes down the gas pedal while Teemo throws the car into reverse, and the Cadillac begins to back away from the trailer which no longer has Beach Cubs music blaring out the ruined front door...

Her beloved boombox lies on the kitchen floor, its carapace shattered and smashed, forever silenced with internal wires dangling out and dial knobs missing. Ahri has yet to realize this, however, as she is kneeling on her bedroom floor, biting back pathetic tears, and desperately trying to piece together the Dr. Seuss book that Teemo has torn to shreds. She wants to know how the book ends. She wants to know if he finally does eat the green eggs and ham. And if not, why? Why not with a box? Or a fox? She wants to lose herself in the book's fantasy world. She wants to jump into what remains between the hard book covers, become one of the characters, eat green eggs and ham, escape this horrible world forever.

It is hopeless. The pages are practically confetti now. There are page numbers here and there, but they don't help. She can only count up to nine, for that's how many tails she has.

She spends the next couple hours cobbling together the confetti, making up her own happy ending where the man finally acquiesces to the other's demand and eats the green eggs and ham. He eats them with a box, and in the company of a happily smiling fox.

_Present Time, Piltover Police Station_

"I'll send a team to your home right away to check out the scene and evidence." Caitlyn is taking notes in the interview room now, and she lifts her head up from her pencil and notepad. "So, how many times did he strike you?"

"Twenty... maybe thirty... I lost count..." Ahri sounds almost apologetic, which tells Caitlyn just how low this girl's self esteem is. "I'm not very good at math... I'm still learning how to read..."

"It's ok, not everyone is left-brained." Caitlyn studies Ahri's face now. "Ahri, are you sure he hit you that many times? The doctor says you didn't suffer any facial injuries and, quite frankly, I don't see any markings on your face other than your whiskers."

"He did! I lost count after nine because that's how many tails I have, and he kept hitting me for so long after that!" The fox girl was thinly defiant now, which Caitlyn supposed was better than utterly miserable. "Maybe he just doesn't hit very hard because he's only three feet tall."

"Well, that does make sense, actually. Plus, he is a ranged champion, so his melee attacks probably really suck."

"Yes, they don't do much damage physically, but..." The defiance falters. The tears start flowing again. "... but it's so humiliating when he hits me, you don't understand! I feel so powerless and helpless and... I can't believe he doesn't love me anymore... I thought we were going to be together forever..." Ahri slumps her exhausted head onto her arms and the desk before her. Too spent to really cry anymore as she starts hiccuping.

Caitlyn reaches out to give the tired fox girl a pat on the arm. "Did he behave differently in the past?"

"Yes, oh yes, he was so different when we first met... we were so perfect for each other... he liked to sing Beach Cubs songs, and I loooove the Beach Cubs, and every other night or so, we'd go camping out in the forest past my trailer and under the stars, and we'd sing together... and he... and he promised that one day, he'd buy beachfront property and we'd go live together by the beach and he'd teach me how to surf..."

"Huh. What changed between you two?"

"Well... I guess..." Ahri sniffled again as she started to stroke Tail #2 over and over. "... I guess things started to change after I sucked out his soul."

Warning bells went off in Caitlyn's head as she stared suspiciously at Ahri. Suddenly the girl's story was becoming verrrry flimsy. "Wait a minute, are you trying to say that little cretin had a soul in the first place?!"

The fox girl looks up from her tail with a look of surprise. "Of course he had a soul! It wasn't a very large one, but it was a beautiful and innocent one despite all the lives he's taken and all the people he's shroomed in-game!"

At the mention of his shrooms, Caitlyn's pencil snaps in half between angry fingers. "So the little **** had a soul... coulda fooled me."

Wood-encased graphite goes flying in a manner that chillingly reminds Ahri of how Teemo kicked down her front door, and she starts to shiver again, struggling to speak through hiccups. "Oh, well... if-if-if-hiccup! you're that concerned about his shrooms, you could just buy an oracle or hicc-hicc-hiccup! Or something..."

"Pssht. Please." A curt Caitlyn waves off the fox girl's suggestion. "I'm an ADC. I let the support champ handle that kind of stuff – WAIT A MINUTE." Caitlyn's face suddenly turns a nauseated green. "You said you sucked out his soul?!"

"Yes..."

"Then that means... you and him... you know... you guys... did you..."

"Yes, we've made love. Why is this so strange to you?"

The sound of a sheriff struggling to keep her lunch in. Caitlyn holds out a hand as she quickly stands up in her chair. "BRB. Gonna go throw up."

Caitlyn uses her net launcher to fly out the open door ASAP, and she barrels into the women's restroom. Shortly afterward, the retching sounds of a sheriff failing to keep her lunch inside her stomach.

A wobbly Caitlyn, maybe two pounds lighter now, stumbles halfway out of the restroom and rests her shoulder against the stainless aluminum door jamb. She holds a hand over her still rumbling belly. Vi is waiting outside with her arms crossed.

"Hey cupcake, what's going down. Not your lunch, that's for sure, haha!" She guffaws and bares her teeth like a donkey.

Caitlyn rolls eyes. "What do you want?"

"Hey, ya mind if I cut into the questioning? I wanna hear the furry talk about how she boned the other furry."

A cross look from the sheriff. "Vi, have you been surfing 4chan's furry section again recently? I told you to knock that **** off, that **** kills brain cells faster than crack cocaine. Besides, you're not supposed to use your workplace computer for those sort of things, remember?!"

Her pink-haired cohort gapes at the reminder, then immediately ahems and scratches her nose with her left gauntlet's pinky. One of Vi's common tells, Caitlyn recognizes. Damn it. The female oaf's been surfing stupid websites again.

"Nah, I ain't been looking at that ****, that ****'s for weaboos and otaku nerds!" Vi coughed lightly. "Anyway, I gotta go wipe my computer's hard drive – errrrr, I mean, I gotta go wipe the floor with some scumbag faces, hahahahaha!"

The pink-haired police officer scoots out of there in a hurry, leaving behind a sighing Caitlyn as she slowly plods back into the questioning room and sits back down in front of Ahri.

"Ok, where were we?"

Ahri asks with the timidity of a wee little beastie. "Are you okay?"

"Yea, yea, I'm fine, don't worry about it – oh yeah, so you had *** with Teemo and you sucked out his soul, is that what you're saying?"

"Yes..." Ahri hung her head again. "I didn't mean to, I mean, I can stop myself from doing it, but when we made love for the first time, I kinda forgot myself in the moment and... you know..."

Another urge to vomit is run over by the realization that surges through the sheriff, and Caitlyn sits up straight in her seat. "Wait! Ahri, you said he became a pimp only recently, right?"

"Y-y-yes, like a couple months ago..."

"Was that the same time you and him... you know... did it?"

"Yes, it was, but – oh my god, are you saying the two things are related?!"

"Dudette, didn't you know?! Pimps are like gingers in that neither of them have souls!"

"Oh my god!" Ahri is aghast now at this revelation. "It all makes sense now! He really did change after that one fateful night! Remember that one pizzeria funhouse he built for families and kids on the corner of Main and 8th?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"After we made love, he went out the following day and turned the pizzeria into a strip club..." Ahri is awash with guilt and shame now as she wavers in her seat with a pained moan. "That's where he makes me dance for money now and... and... it's so embarrassing..."

The fox girl hangs her head. "So, everything he's done recently... making me dance naked for strangers, slapping me around, breaking into my home, breaking my things, taking my money, urinating in public, failing to renew his driver's license, burning his last batch of waffles, unable to carry himself out of Bronze League in solo queue... this is all my fault?"

Caitlyn solemnly nods her head. "Yup."

"Oh." Ahri thinks about it for a moment, then starts to cry again. "Oh my god, it is my fault! How can I ever make it up to him!"

"Well, for starters, you could give back his soul. That might bring back the Teemo you once knew."

"Oh my god, you're right!" Ahri is ecstatic at Caitlyn's suggestion, then she slumps again. "But I... I don't have his soul right now. After I eat a soul, I kinda... you know... poop it out afterward..."

"So you flushed his soul down the toilet?"

"Yes..."

"Ez pz, it's just like those scumbags who flush drugs down the toilet, then! We go into the sewers and find his soul!"

"We... we can find his soul in the sewers?!"

"Yeah, it won't be easy because the sewers are ruled by Kingpin Twitch and his gang, and they collect everything that makes its way down there... and I'm sure they would collect something as valuable as the soul of a League champion. But I've negotiated with them a few times in the past, and I think we can work out a deal for them to hand over Teemo's soul to you."

"Really?!" Ahri runs around the table to hug the sheriff. "Thank you thank you thank you, oh my god, thank you so much, this is the best news I've heard, thank you so much!"

"Hey, calm down, I'm just doing my job here, that's all."

But Caitlyn smiles anyway, and she lets the fox girl hold onto her for as long as she wants...

_Several hours later, Piltover Police Station_

It's almost midnight now. Caitlyn walks through the underground parking structure beneath the police station, ready to drive back home now. Keys jangle and sensible low heels clop loudly in the otherwise deserted concrete dungeon.

She opens the door to her luxury sedan and settles into the front seat with a sigh as she recalls the day's events. She can't help but think about the poor fox girl and the haunted face she wore. The face of a girl who has fallen victim to the hand of a pimp. Vi and a couple other fellas checked out the trailer. It was pretty much as Ahri had described. Some old man neighbor confirmed her account, too. Little ****ing bastard Teemo. Caitlyn could not wait to bust that mother****er and throw him into solitary for a couple years. She'd start by raiding that new strip club of his and -

Suddenly she has the strong sensation that she is being watched, and she spins around in her seat to look at the back where a bad guy surely waits for her, just like in the movies. But it is empty. Also sometimes just like in the movies.

Unable to shake this sensation, she spins back to the front and scans all around her. But the car is alone. The garage is empty. Nothing but vacant parking spaces stretching for as far as her eye can see. The nearest objects are the garage's structural pillars spaced every ten yards or so.

She sighs again and mutters under her breath about how she's getting jumpy over stupid ****. She sticks the key into the ignition and turns her car on. To her shock, her stereo blares loud music. She could have sworn she switched her stereo off when she pulled into work this morning -

She recognizes the voices of the song and her body freezes due to blood running cold. Oh _****_. It is a famous quintet of male yordle baritones and tenors. The Beach Cubs.

_"Round round get around, I get around..."_

Her eyes flick up past her driving glasses to the rear view mirror. And sure enough, in the murky black darkness of the back, two bloody-red fire pits of pure evil now burn on the face of a yordle pimp.

_**"Shoulda bought an oracles, ya ADC *****!"**_

The guttural gameplay tip cracks with the authority of an Olympic sprint's starting gun, and suddenly the two occupants galvanize into action.

Caitlyn has some of the fastest hands in all of Runeterra, and her right hand moves like greased lightning to draw the pistol from her shoulder holster. But it is far too late.

_My buddies and me are getting real well known,  
Yeah, the bad guys know us and they leave us alone..._

The backhand of his little furry paw has already launched from its cocked position with the practice of ten thousand repetitions, and it sweeps towards her exposed right cheek in an ominous crescent arc...

_One Hour Later, Teemo's Strip Club_

Teemo's strip club is called the Golden Mushroom. From the outside, it looks like a boarded up and abandoned pizzeria with barred windows. The only giveaway is the number of ridiculously expensive cars parked out front.

From the inside, it is a glamorous Sin City jammed into three sprawling underground floors. Booze, drugs, girls everywhere. Persian rugs on the floors, rare paintings on the walls. Clusters of poker and blackjack tables. The big show is the third and bottom floor, where only the VIPs of the VIPs get to hang out. The main attraction is the stage and tables where girls dance, and the most popular girl, by far, is Ahri.

While she loves to dance within the privacy of her trailer, Ahri dances with a heavy heart whenever she is here. She is still too new and fresh to this business and not yet deadened enough to turn off her emotions at will. She used to be the newest girl here, but not anymore. Much to her horror, a familiar face joins her on stage. A girl whom Teemo just acquired tonight.

She is Caitlyn, dressed in garters and not much else. The sheriff's face is a longer thinner version of Ahri's rounded face, but equally shell shocked and traumatized, if not more so. Yet another victim of Teemo's backhand. The ******bag patrons don't notice her mannequin's face and stiff movements because her incredible legs are more than enough, legs that go on and on for days...

Ahri tries to get Caitlyn's attention, but the sheriff is too far gone. The fox girl starts to cry on stage, but the patrons don't care as they motion for her to come over so they can stuff dollar bills inside her thong. Oh god, all of this is her fault. If she hadn't gone to the police, Caitlyn would have never gotten involved in all this. Everything is her fault. Teemo, Caitlyn, burned waffles, everything.

Through the blurry waterfall of tears, she looks to the back of the room where Teemo usually sits and watches with his henchmen. Teemo is seated there as expected, eating a cupcake that he found in the police station parking lot, ignoring the snapped-shut bear trap which still clings to his mangled left ear. He grins savagely and knowingly, as he gestures to his raised right hand and mouths his motto to her:

_**"Never underestimate the power of the pimp's hand."**_

Her fault. All her fault. Ahri looks away, tears running freely as the chubby revolting hand of Gragas Esquire slips and pats a hundred dollar bill against her hip. But a small glimmer of hope even as Gragas's horrid touch lingers.

_I'll get Teemo's soul from Twitch,_ she tells herself, hoping Caitlyn somehow hears from the other side of the stage. _Your help will not be in vain, Caitlyn, I swear it will not! I'll get his soul back, then I'll get my Teemo back, and you can go back to your police station, and everything will go back to normal and be all right..._

She just wants a happy ending. An ending as happy as the collage she glued together for Green Eggs and Ham.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

Sorry to anyone who follows my Pantheon/Leona story, but I'm not in the proper mood to work on it right now. Really want to try darker stuff, thus this wildly veering schizo doodle. Spat out this chapter in one night, somehow. I think it's cuz my roommate's been watching a lot of Law and Order SVU lately which perpetually features women in peril. Makes me remember when my mom once took me aside and told me to never hit a woman because she will never ever trust you afterward. Words I'll take with me to my grave. Even then, I can't make this story too dark, cuz that's not really me. Also, like many others, humor is my go-to defense mechanism when I feel uncomfortable.

I guess, deep down, I can't help but feel like with all these fan fics (including most of mine) which feature empowered women who fear nothing, it kinda obscures the fact that IRL, domestic abuse is still prevalent and should not be ignored or hidden behind fantasy. Maybe in a way, I'm trying to keep it real... by writing fan fic about Teemo x Ahri... lol, that didn't make sense, did it?


End file.
